Archive for October, 2004
October 29th, 2004
As you may have noticed, we have ourselves a new look diary page. This is not because I actually wanted a new one; it is because I am a complete idiot and whilst messing around managed to delete my old settings. So please forgive the somewhat chaotic period of adjustment. The old photo albums are on the left hand side at the bottom under “albums”. The most recent post is two slots beneath this one and…I’m sure you’ll work the rest of it out.
Cheers.
October 29th, 2004
Ah the relief, the wonderful liberation, of a light pack!
We are in Chateau Renault after four successive days of fairly strenuous walking – we have covered over 100km – but it is difficult to convey how vastly different it is with a light pack. I can actually lift mine up all by myself now (VERY exciting) and Gary’s looks more like a pack and less like a strange life form from Mars. The first day we left Chateaudon, we had 30km to do – we were 10km down the road before we had our first chocolate break. That’s a record for us, and the miles really did fly by. Unfortunately, being the gifted and astute map readers that we are, we then managed to get lost, and wandered in useless circles for an hour or so. But at least the packs didn’t hurt.
We were on the way to the house of Le Colonel in Freteval, another of Frank’s contacts who had offered to accommodate us for a night. It was an experience I am unlikely to forget in a hurry.
After an extremely long day, we arrived at Le Colonel’s at around 7.00. We were already on the back foot, as we were nearly an hour after the agreed arrival time, and given that the man has a military background, it wasn’t the ideal beginning. The home of the Le Colonel and his wife, La Colonelle as we can call her from here on, is rather spectacular. It is a 16th century Manor House that has been in the family for several hundred years. It faces the river Loir, and is covered in brilliant red and gold autumn leaves. We were met at the gate by le Colonel himself, the very picture of military efficiency with a plush, trim moustache, silver hair and wiry frame. He was dressed in a neat, well cut suit, and welcomed us with great old world courtesy – all that was missing was the formal bow. La Colonelle met us in the reception hall, and she too looked the very epitome of what a military wife should be – not a hair out of place, well tailored, and composed. The reception hall itself was enough to scare the wits out of me – the paintings alone would have made the curator of the Louvre slather, not to mention the fine Louis 15th furniture and walking sticks in on the stand from the previous 10 or so generations, all with initials engraved. Obviously Gary and I, mud soaked and stinking, perfectly complemented our surroundings.
We de-packed in the hall and were shown into a formal lounge, “for drinks”. We had established by this stage that Le Colonel and the missus spoke nary a word of English, which didn’t bode particularly well for the evening, given that mine is a somewhat tenuous grasp on the language, and Gary’s non-existant.
Horribly conscious of our less than attractive state, we perched on the edge of the antique sofa and sipped timidly at our crystal glasses, whilst the patrician couple perched on high backed chairs opposite and eyed us warily. After a few stilted attempts at conversation, Le Colonel informed us that dinner would be at 7.30 – I got the distinct impression that after being late, messing with the time frame would not be advisable – and showed us to our chambre. It was, of course, absolutely beautiful, a whole wing of the old house with a wonderfully comfortable bed and exposed beams in the ceiling. Unfortunately we had not a moment to appreciate it, as by now we had exactly 15 minutes to get showered, dressed, and down to dinner.
After eyeing the bath longingly – oh, you don’t know how longingly – we threw our sole set of clean clothes on and raced downstairs. La Colonelle showed us to our places around the exquisitely set table – and we sat down to eat.
And it was wonderful. It really was. After five minutes, we discovered that the Colonel had a fantastic sense of humour, even through the language barrier; La Colonelle was tres sympathetique, and extremely patient with my bad French. Gary, lucky sod, got to just sit there and nod, mouthing the occasional “oui” and “merci” due to his total lack of French. I babbled on in my customary fashion, which was a shame really, as the food was truly superb. I would hesitate to call the settings relaxed – I suspect what Le Colonel views as relaxed would, for most of us, be the equivalent of dinner at Buckingham Palace – but they were certainly an education. Blame the fact that I’m Australian if you will, but I am usually utterly terrified of grand surroundings, especially those with the kind of refined hush which makes a ticking clock sound momentous. Sitting at the beautifully laid table, surrounded by a plethora of silver and crystal in the presence of people who have the business of elegance down to an art form, there were endless opportunities for the kind of natural disaster I specialise in. Gary spent most of the dinner eyeing me nervously, terrified that I would smash a century old plate, or fart at an inopportune moment. It was tempting.
But in actual fact the couple were typically French in their innate courtesy, and went to every effort to put us at our ease. The food was absolutely marvellous (the cheese! Oh my god, the cheese!) and they were far from the uptight equivalent in England. After dinner we retired to the lounge again where I made the only bad language stuff up of the night. We were discussing smoking, which the Colonel still does and I have recently quit, and I thought that he offered me a cigarette. Terrified of how much I’d still love one, I shook my head emphatically and said a very strong, “non, merci”. He looked rather surprised and asked me again – at this point I realised his wife was highly amused, and worked out that in fact he had asked if I minded if he smoked. In his own home. To which I had said that I certainly did mind, and would he please not, thankyou. At least they laughed about it.
In the end we had a lovely night, and a wonderful sleep, and the lunch that La Colonelle packed for us the following day was nothing short of sensational. It was a real privilege to stay in such a magnificent ancestral home, amongst members of what I imagine you could call “old France”. If slightly terrifying.
We walked from there to Villiers-sur-Loir, a small village the other side of the town of Vendome. It was a beautiful place, and we had an amazing meal at the small hotel there – ten euros each for an absolutely fabulous four course meal. Man I love this country.
The very kindly hotel owner where we stayed had a daughter who had spent time in Australia – he treated us to a lovely bottle of local wine whilst we sat and chatted to her. She was such an extraordinarily articulate, self possessed young woman that I was utterly gobsmacked to discover she was only sixteen. She told us something that many French people seem to bemoan – France isn’t what it was, the immigration problem is enormous, and the people are stressed. It is something we have heard a lot since we have been here. It is difficult to reconcile that viewpoint with the wonderfully relaxed lifestyle so many seem to enjoy; but it most definitely is a concern here. Taxes are high – the hotel owner told us he pays 55%! – and the social security system is overwhelmed by the immigrants flooding in since the relaxation of European borders. It is exactly the same situation as everybody moans about in England. But I don’t know – the French seem a fairly cheerful lot to me. Particularly those two. It was a joy to talk with them, and the wine was superb!
So two more days of walking has brought us here, to Chateau Renault, where we are having a rest day before heading to Tours. The walk here was absolutely idyllic, along beautiful forest rides, across lush fields, and beside the river. The 30km day yesterday felt more like 20, and the sun shone throughout. Far more exciting, though, was what we discovered in our budget hotel room – it has a BATH! Oh thankyou, there is a God. The groans when Gary lowered his aching bones into it were enough to make every light in town go on and the population suspect we were indulging in a mass orgy. The sublime sensation of a hot, foamy bath after ten hours walking is impossible to convey. Take my word it was gooooood.
We are making good time now and catching up on the long delay. We are also rather excited as we are heading for Vouvray, where the Loire Valley’s most famous wines are produced. You may or may not see me again after I reach the cellars. If not, don’t worry. I will have died a contented woman.
October 23rd, 2004
Just a short note after the previous post – there is a new album at the bottom right of the screen, if you scroll down to it.
October 23rd, 2004
It is strange how so much can alter in a very short space of time.
The same day that I uploaded the last entry, in Chartres, Gary and I wandered into the bookshop next to the Cathedral, to ask if they had any information about accommodation along the Compostela route. The kindly store owner immediately sprang into action, and put us in touch with a man called Frank, who she said would be able to help us.
What an understatement that was!
I had read quite a lot about the Camino de Santiago, or the Way of St Jacques, as it is known in France, before we left. I knew that although it is still walked by many
Christians, it is also now a popular walking trail in it’s own right, walked as frequently for a travel experience as it is in search of spiritual enlightenment. I knew, also, that this change has proven a challenge for the traditional network of accommodation for pilgrims along the way – with the increase in popularity comes also the risk of abuse. Obviously there are those who will take advantage of the relatively cheap, and sometimes free, hospitality offered, in a manner not in keeping with the spirit of the trail – for example, people who are not actually walking or cycling, but driving and pretending to walk in order to get a cheap bed for the night. As we are not, strictly speaking, overly religious people, I had not anticipated much in the way of assistance. But, as has seemed to be the case since we landed in France, nothing could be further from the truth.
From the moment we met Frank, who together with his friend Jacques is the local authority on the route from Chartres, we have been shown unstinting warmth, kindness and generosity. It is entirely due to Frank and his lovely wife, Rebecca, that I write this in utterly wonderful surroundings.
When we met, Frank found the time to sit with us in the magnificent Cathedral in Chartres and explain the intricacies of the 12th century stained glass window there, which tells the story of St Jacques. As he is something of an expert on the Cathedral itself, it was a joy to listen to him talk about the symbolism used throughout the ancient building, and to understand some of the politics in place at the time of it’s construction. I have often looked at the windows in these Gothic Cathedrals in admiration but total incomprehension; I may be aware that they tell a story, but unless it is a blindingly obvious one, such as the Nativity or Last Supper, I tend to be left rather in the dark. Frank was able to explain every panel in the window in a way that brought the stories and history to life. We were both fascinated.
Apart from driving me to the camping store – which was great as I would never have found it otherwise – he had also photocopied detailed maps of the trail from Chartres. As if all this were not enough, he then pulled out a list of people who live along the route, and are prepared to receive walking pilgrims into their homes.
Now take a moment to consider that last statement.
These are people in private homes, not trying to run an illegal bed and breakfast, or turn a buck in any way; indeed, people who may not even be connected to the church or to the Way of St Jacques itself; but rather people who, out of simple kindness, are prepared to accommodate and feed those attempting to walk the route.
I think it is marvellous. Absolutely, heart-warmingly, tear jerkingly, marvellous, and I hope with all my heart that it is a tradition which continues.
For the first night after walking from Chartres, we were heading for the home of Madame Henry. Frank kindly offered to walk with us, for which we were grateful, as the walking routes in France are notoriously circuitous.
We set out from Chartres at a respectable (for us) 9.00am. It is the first time since leaving England that we have walked with someone else. And within the first hour, we came face to face with a cold hard fact:
We are slow, man. Really, really slow.
After all these weeks of patting ourselves on the back and feeling proud when we covered the distance, we realised that in actual fact we are literally going at a snail’s pace. We watched Frank stride out in front of us, head high and obviously enjoying the walk, and for the first time we both felt the horrible, leaden weight of our enormous packs.
I guess that ever since we put them back on after Paris we have been feeling the strain. It is not like the first few weeks, where we kept on thinking that we would get used to it eventually; we have been walking for long enough now that we should be comfortable with the weight – or, if not comfortable, at least accepting. Instead, it has become an increasing burden, and after the long break in Paris, we have been all the more aware of the pressure on our bodies. The walk was only 25km or so, but we both found ourselves struggling through it, and were exhausted at the end of the day. I had picked up a few extra kilos in the pack from Chartres and could seriously feel the extra strain.
But more on that later.
Frank was a terrific walking companion, as was his very gutsy little dog, Trix, who trotted gamely alongside us all day. 6.00pm that evening found us on the doorstop of Madame Henry’s beautiful home in Bouville, a small village in the Beauce. We weren’t sure what to expect. It is a little difficult, when you are tired and your feet hurt and all you can do is fantasise about bed, to face meeting a new person. At that end of the day, it sometimes seems easier to just pitch the tent and fall into bed, than to try to communicate in stilted French and go through civil niceties with a stranger. But Madame Henry is such a wonderful person, that meeting her was more like falling into a warm feather bed than anything to do with effort.
She is a tiny person with an absolutely enormous smile, which made us feel instantly welcome and relaxed. Her home is a lovely old farmhouse, full of odds and ends sent to her by her brother and son who live in Polynesia. It is opposite the church, and in the evening and early in the morning the bells chime with a mellow, melodic tone; otherwise it is entirely peaceful.
Rebecca arrived to collect Frank, and we enjoyed talking with her for a while before she, sensible lady, got back into the car. (A much more civilised way to travel, and far less painful.) Then Gary and I settled in at the large dining table, where between our pathetic attempts at French and Madame Henry’s very good English, we managed a pretty good kind of conversation. She had actually gone to the trouble to prepare a wonderful meal; after we had wallowed in the luxury of a hot shower, we were treated to a delicious soup, fish casserole, and beautiful homemade fruit compote, not to mention cheese and wine. We were amazed that someone could be so kind as to open their home and heart to complete strangers in such a fashion, simply because we are on the St Jacques route.
These French – they truly are wonderful.
After a heavenly night’s sleep – like Cecile’s village of Montreuil sur Breche, Bouville is utterly quiet at night – we awoke to the ringing of the bells, and packed up. One of the (many) things that both of us have truly enjoyed and appreciated in the French homes we have been welcomed into, is the lovely way breakfast is taken; Madame Henry treated us yet again. Small fine bowls of coffee and hot chocolate, toasted baguette with truly miraculous fresh butter and homemade jam…to sit at a table beautifully laid out, simply for breakfast, for me sums up what makes France such a wonderful place.
Madame Henry is one of life’s beautiful people. Her home was a joy to be in, and her company even better. We left feeling rested, refreshed, and, above all, overwhelmingly grateful.
We had intended to walk all the way to Chateaudun, 30km away; but after only 10km we were both struggling. We decided to stop at Bonneval. Frank, in his usual thoughtful manner, had already telephoned ahead to confirm that the campground there was open, so we knew it was a sure thing. It was an extremely fortuitous decision.
After walking all day through lovely sunny weather, with barely a cloud in the sky, we had no sooner erected the tent than the heavens opened with enough force to make Noah run for cover. Fortunately for us, there was a large games room about 10 metres from our site, where we sat for the rest of the day drying out our clothes. It was at that point that we decided the great Pack Culling of 2004 had to happen.
Fight it as we might – and we have – it was inevitable. Everyone we know or have met has gasped in horror at the sheer magnitude of our packs. Despite every piece of advice to the contrary, we have been carrying well over 30 kg each – Gary’s is 40 – without the added weight of food. No matter how we may believe that everything in the packs is necessary, the time had come when we just couldn’t carry them anymore. We sat in that games room and suddenly found ourselves wondering why on earth we thought we needed a stove…or a leather bound journal…or sheets. Out into a heap went all of the things we figured we could do without. And I tell you, the bag with the rejects in it was heavy enough to sink the Titanic. God knows how we were carrying it.
Unfortunately, like it or not, we still had to carry the stuff to Charteaudun the next day before we could dump it; although the walk was an absolutely beautiful one, through picturesque woods and by the meandering river Loir (not to be confused with the big Loire with an “e”), we were horribly conscious of the fact that we were carrying this weight we had decided to discard. It was a long walk.
But the prize came at the end, when we arrived at the Gite Frank had told us about. It is on the bank of the Loir, next to a medieval stone bridge, with the enormous 12th century chateau literally across the road. The friendly Gite manager is cheerful and helpful, there is a fabulous Boulangerie up the road, and a brilliant restaurant located in the caves (les Grottes) down the road. From our window we can see the river winding past, and at night the spotlit façade of the chateau. It is an idyllic setting.
So our lives as pilgrims have begun. We have the scallop shells which Frank gave us tied to our packs; traditionally pilgrims collected them from the beach near Santiago, and hung them on their packs so they would not be confused with common tramps. Now the scallop shell is the symbol of the Compostela route, and forms the way mark used along the Trail. There is one such placard on the ground outside Chartres Cathedral – it says 1625 km to Santiago. A bit daunting, that. There is a photo of it in the Chartres album. I try not to look at it too often.
Later in Chateaudun
I have just spent an unsuccessful hour trying to upload photographs, but the system doesn’t seem to be able to handle it, so I will have to do it down the track. Maybe it just doesn’t like the look of our ugly mugs.
October 15th, 2004
We were about a mile out of Paris when the rain started to fall. It wasn’t too bad to begin with, just a light grey drizzle which came and went, and it was so good to be walking again we barely noticed it. The walking was pleasant and took us through a succession of beautiful villages. After the austerity and hauteur of Paris, the villages appeared all the more picturesque, with their crumbling stone walls covered in grape vine leaves in flaming autumn colours, and tumbling down farmhouses by pretty little canals. The air was full of the rich scents of the season; freshly turned soil, damp earth, and wood smoke. Even in the wet weather, the kilometres seemed to pass us by quickly and easily.
We were heading for a small village called Rochefort, a reasonable walk of about 28 kilometres. We planned to camp there, or stay in a hotel if there was no camping. Unfortunately, when we arrived, about 5 o’clock, there was neither camping nor hotel to be had, which meant we had to push on another 5km to St Arnoult. It was at that stage that Gary started to run out of steam. Given that he had been very ill a few days before, he had hung on really well for our first day back walking, but all of a sudden he found himself with no energy at all. We needed to stop.
The rain had eased off, and not far up the road the fields became a thick forest, which we figured was as good a place as any to camp. We headed up into the trees and pitched the tent. By 9 o’clock we were fed and tucked up in bed. Except – I didn’t sleep a wink for about 3 hours.
I have spent a lot of time camped in the Australian bush, both with other people and on my own. It is a remarkably noisy place at night, filled with all manner of nocturnal beasties roaming around; but I have never felt scared in it, perhaps because it’s smells and sounds are so familiar. So it came as a bit of a shock to find myself in the middle of the woods lying awake, my heart pounding at every single sound. The thing is, you see, that the two are nothing – absolutely nothing – at all alike. The forest over here seems unnaturally quiet. The forest floor is soft and muffled, and apart from owls, the only sound I could hear was the weird thud of small branches falling off trees. I know there must be loads of creatures scurrying about out there, but I couldn’t hear them. Even the trees move in a hushed kind of way. Quite frankly, it was eerie. I’d have given anything to smell a gum tree and hear a possum screaming or a wombat crashing through the bush.
And let me just say one last thing: I wish with all my heart that I had never, ever watched the Blair Witch Project.
Anyway. I was way too exhausted to stay awake all night, even if I suspected that every tree hid a weird supernatural presence just biding it’s time before rattling our tent and leaving dead hands wrapped in sticks outside the door. Much as I was determined to remain on guard to battle the dreaded demons, sore muscles and envy of Gary’s peaceful snoring knocked me out eventually. Of course by daylight the entire scene appeared calm and serene. But it didn’t alter my fervent wish to get packed and out of there as soon as humanly possible.
The weather didn’t even attempt to put on a brave face the next day, and started chucking the rain down as soon as we stepped out on to the road. We hiked up to St Arnoult and stopped for some hot chocolate and to get food for the day, and sat in the Brasserie looking at the gloomy sky, egging each other on with promises of a night in a Gite or hotel, in the substantial looking town of Gallardon, about 25 km away. We rugged up and set off.
We were walking through the Beauce, a region known for it’s vast cereal production – it is sometimes called the “bread basket of France”, as over 60% of the grain used in breadmaking is produced here. What that means in terms of walking is lengthy stretches of straight, flat road with wide fields on either side, and very little in the way of trees, shelter, or people. The roads were lovely and peaceful, with little other than the odd tractor to break the silence, and the smell of rich soil, newly turned, reminded me of the farms at home. With our raincoats on and thermals keeping us warm, we plodded on fairly happily for 15km or so.
About that time the wind started to pick up, and the rain began driving across the empty fields in angry bursts. The day started to close in quickly under the heavy layer of cloud, and we still had about 10km to go before we reached Gallardon. We decided that we would stop at the next farm we got to and see if we could camp, or book into a hotel – whichever turned up first.
Or rather – didn’t turn up.
10km later we had passed neither, and were in a sodden heap in Gallardon. Now, bear in mind that this is a town which in Australia would be called a city, complete with polytechnic, large factories, major cathedral and a shopping precinct; equipped, in fact, with just about everything the consumerist little heart could desire.
Except a sodding hotel. Or camping ground. There are hotels advertised there, but, as seems to be common in French towns, they exist only in the imagination of the public servant writing the tourist brief. Who I will happily murder if ever we meet. There is a French word for “sorry” which I have always thought charmingly courteous – “desolee” – as in: “I am desolate”. But I got thoroughly sick of it in Gallardon, as we approached various people with queries regarding accommodation.
“Un hotel? Pas ici, je suis desolee…”
“Le camping? Non, non, madame, pas ici, desolee…”
Well, what about a bloody field to camp in?
“Je ne sais pas…desolee…”
It seemed there was nothing there, no-one knew anything, and everyone was desolate. Including us, by that stage. After weeks of people being unbelievably solicitous, it seemed we had suddenly hit Shitsville, France. It was 6 o’clock, cold, wet, and getting dark, and from all accounts the nearest hotel was 5km up the road – although no-one seemed certain that it actually existed. The map showed nothing in the way of trees to camp in anywhere nearby. We did the only sensible thing and retired to the Tabac for a quiet drink, all the better to contemplate our fabulous array of options. At the time they consisted of
1/ walk, or
2/ get drunk and walk.
Obviously, I favoured the second.
On our second drink we got chatting to the kindly barman, who told us that three minutes walk away there was a sports field. When we asked if he thought we could camp there, he gave one of those wonderfully expressive Gallic shrugs, which seem to say “who knows?”, “why not?”, and “who gives a shit anyway?” all in one fabulously nonchalant gesture.
We drained our hot chocolates – don’t laugh, I was being responsible – and plodded back out into the now torrential downpour. A few minutes later we spied the sports field, which had a promising clump of trees at the far end. We squelched our way through the mud, stood in the bucketing rain and looked at each other, both with the same thought – how the hell do we do this?
There wasn’t a dry – even semi dry – metre of soil anywhere. Nowhere to put a tarp down to rest the packs on, no shelter to put the tent under, just open space with the wind and rain howling through. It was pitch black by this time.
In the absence of vast quantities of alcohol, we gave mildly hysterical snorts of laughter, attempted to fool each other that we found the situation vastly amusing, and tried not to stuff up too badly. We dumped the packs on to a sodden tarp; threw the tent up; and then tossed everything, including ourselves, into it. We had a grand old time playing jump the puddles on the tent floor while we set up our bedding, then took our dripping outer layer off, kept the thermals on, and crawled into the sleeping bags in a hurry to warm up. Which brings me to the battle of the sleeping bags.
Now, after years (I like to flatter myself) of blokes trying to get me in the sack, so to speak, I now find myself turfed out of it. Gary is convinced that when it is really cold we are better off in our own solitary bags, as they are built to retain body heat. I am firmly of the opinion that zipping them together is a far better option. Not only do I then get the benefit of Gary’s body heat, I also get about three feet more room. This, of course, may have something to do with why he doesn’t go for the idea.
On that particular evening the debate was particularly pertinent – but as I was carrying the last of the food in my pack, the decision was always going to go my way. I hold the belief that all is fair in love and sleeping bag war.
So we spent the night praying to all the Gods that the tent would withstand yet another drenching (it did), that no-one would come and kick us out (they didn’t), and that the weather would clear up before morning (yeah right).
Day three was destination Chartres. We packed up our soaking kit at 5am, driven onwards by the thought of a hot shower – believe me we needed one – and a big, steaming meal. As we set out, in the rain yet again, we did something we try not to: the food competition. You know the kind of thing.
“Oh man, I’d give anything for a big, juicy steak…”
“Yeah, but I’d have mine with truffle butter, new potatoes, asparagus and hollandaise sauce.”
“No way. I’d go for a red wine sauce, thick cut chips, and fresh green beans. And I’d have a chocolate crepe to finish.”
“I’d add a huge cheese platter afterwards, with yummy red and crusty bread…”
There is a very good reason we don’t do this very often. Firstly, because it is never a good idea to try to outdo a chef in regard to food fantasies, and secondly, because we rarely have either the money or the venue to see them fulfilled. But it was a miserable day, we had eaten nothing but Kendal Mint cake and bread for our last two meals, and we were wet, cold, and hungry. It was inevitable.
I won, eventually, with a description of Beef Bourgignon and garlic mash which had Gary slathering like a rabid dog and me eyeing up every passing cow in a covetous fashion.
There was a tiny village called Coltainville marked on the map about 10km from Shitsville. We held faint hopes that there may be a boulangerie where we could buy some breakfast, or maybe even – look out – a brasserie where we could have a hot chocolate. As we walked through, though, our spirits sank. It was a dead end town, and the only hope on the horizon seemed to be a tiny, poky looking little Tabac. Hoping we could at least get a hot drink we went in.
It was a typical looking village cafe, with the customary handful of ornery old chaps in berets at the small bar smoking and drinking pastis. They eyed our dripping, lumbering forms with caution. We exchanged polite greetings and they turned back to their drinks.
Madame et Monsieur our hosts were very sorry, but lunch didn’t start until 1 o’clock. However – not looking very hopeful – they would see what they could do. In the meantime, we could have a hot chocolate.
Far from being disappointed, we were beside ourselves in excitement at the prospect of a hot drink, in the way only those who have been wet, cold, and hungry for 24 hours can appreciate. When Madame brought out two steaming, frothy jugs of chocolate, sweet and creamy, we would have kissed her except the unholy stench of our combined bodies could possibly have ushered the poor soul into an untimely grave. As it was, we fell upon them with unseemly gusto.
Whilst we waited for whatever food they could rustle up, we were intrigued to see Monsieur setting every table in the place with baskets of bread, open litres of wine, and crockery – about 60 places in all – for all the world as if he actually expected the place to fill up. Given that the population of the town would be hard pressed to exceed 30, we thought him a touch on the optimistic side, but each to their own.
Eventually he brought us some plates with fresh luscious tomatoes, beautifully and simply dressed; thick cut ham; and crusty bread. Beside ourselves in delight, we polished off the lot in minutes and felt grateful for their efforts. Little did we know that it had only been the first course.
Seconds later, out came two large dishes. One held thick, creamy, garlicky mash; and the other – I’m sure you’ve already guessed – held a mountain of rich, tender, Beef Bourgignon, so full of flavour it brought tears to our eyes. We couldn’t believe it – our ultimate food fantasy come true, and in perfect form. And there was no end to it. The cheese platter alone would have fed a small army, and it was served with wonderful fresh, crisp apples.
We ate, and ate, and ate some more. For whole minutes there was no sound from our table except deep, heartfelt groans of pleasure, and the odd yelp of muted ecstasy. I have never, ever eaten Beef Bourgignon like that. If you can imagine every thick, red winey, mushroomy sauce you have ever loved, and mix it with beef so tender it falls apart to the touch with a rich, deep, mature flavour, multiply your fantasy by about 50 and you have some idea of what I mean. Christ it was good.
By the time we finished eating, a steady stream of people were trampling in the door. Within ten minutes every single table was filled. And all of the customers were local labourers, who stopped at the bar for un aperitif and a chat before sitting down to eat. Probably every labourer for 30km knew about that café, and happily drove the distance for lunch; it was obvious that they came here every day. And no wonder. I wish I could.
As somebody who lives in perpetual envy of the AA Gills and Michael Winners of this world, who are paid to review restaurants, I am going to seize my opportunity to say something I have always wanted to, in the sure knowledge it will be read by only a handful of people who most probably can never take my advice: do yourself a favour, and go to the Coltainville. Go there now.
Did it sound good? It always does when Giles Coran writes it.
So, as I write this, we are happy little souls. Our wonderfully full stomachs gave wings to our backpacks, and we were in Chartres by early afternoon, where we are happily ensconced in a hostel, showered, fed, and drying out at last. We’ve covered nearly 80 km in the last 3 days which, whilst not a huge distance, we are happy with given our long break. Apart from the usual aching muscles we appear to be in good shape.
We are finally at the starting point of the Compostela route, which we are both very excited about. If there are any other people walking the route reading this page, I will be posting updates re: route etc on the “on walking” page.
In the meantime, I am going to eat more chocolate and revel in the novelty of being warm and dry whilst I still can. Gary is still not 100%, so we will stay here until Sunday morning to give him a chance to get better. At least that’s my excuse.
By the way, Gary insists that the real reason he doesn’t want to zip the bags together is because I am a fidget arse and I let all the cold air in. As this page is intended to show both sides of the story I thought he was entitled to a line in his defence. Even if he is wrong.
THE NEXT DAY IN CHARTRES
I had to add this in at the last minute in the internet café.
We had completely run out of clothes by the time we got here last night. All the available space in the room was taken up with hanging the tent and sleeping bags up to dry, so there was nowhere for us to hang up clothes – and besides which, they were seriously stinking. So today the good people of Chartres have been treated to the fabulous sight of Gary and I, clad in our thermal underwear, socks, and sandals (oh how attractive) traipsing through town to the laundromat. I am sitting in this little internet café surrounded by curious souls trying to sneak surreptitious peeks at my ultra desirable ensemble. I am sorely tempted to cultivate a few odd twitches and weirdo type mutterings to fulfil what must be the very epitome of the nutter stereotype, but out of consideration for Gary (who, it has to be said, looks even more fetching than my good self) I shall desist. The scary thing about Gary is that he actually didn’t see anything odd about his get up. Which explains a lot about men and clothes, if you ask me.
October 11th, 2004
Now that Gary appears to be on the mend, which means we don’t have to return to the hospital where he was being treated, I am free to write with impunity about the aforementioned Le Docteur.
It has to be said that when we pitched up to the hospital, neither of us were in much of a mood to be charmed. There are few things more guaranteed to induce a total sense of humour failure, than finding yourself in serious pain, and without a firm grasp of the local language. But in typical French fashion, the incredibly busy woman behind the office desk was endlessly patient with us, and seemed to find nothing strange in the fact that we had no fixed address, telephone number, or itinery. She gave us our printed form and waved us through into the waiting area of casualty. Now, I mean no disrespect to the fine men and women of the English National Health System when I say this, but the French hospital was a revelation. After nearly three years in England I have become almost a native of that country in my resigned acceptance of the utterly horrible state of it’s health system. The endless queues, filthy, antiquated wards, and incredibly grumpy doctors are the sad evidence of what happens to a good idea when it is thoroughly over-subscribed. So it was with sheer delight that we realised there were only 5 – five! – people waiting ahead of us.
After a short while, a lovely young bloke showed us into a little room. Not a curtained off part of a larger ward, but an actual, private, closed off room. He spoke to us in English, for which we were immensely grateful, and was very kind. After he had a good look at the wound on Gary’s neck, he said he needed a second opinion from “Le Surgeon”, and left us to go and fetch him.
In a few minutes the door opened, angels sang, the lights went dim and Barry White started crooning in the background. Six feet of Gallic cliché strode in with great authority, cocked a lazy eye at us both, and in a voice guaranteed to reduce a legion of Jewish mothers to quivering wrecks, announced with great disdain, “I am Le Surgeon.” I hastily pushed Gary onto the floor, arranged myself in my Dior gown seductively amongst the ring of votive candles, and seduced him with one daring glance from beneath my long lashes. Well, maybe not, but it was close.
Truly though, I cannot imagine anyone ever fitting a stereotype more perfectly than Le Surgeon. He was utterly, breathtakingly, completely unattainably, stunning. He had that kind of languid, fluid elegance which I truly thought was the sole preserve of Georgette Heyer’s Regency period heroes, all fine artistic fingers and long, lean limbs. His face was so classically French it looked as though it had leapt straight from a Truffaut film, lazy eyed, long nosed, and with one of those mouths that…well…it wouldn’t be nice to say what you could do with one of those.
He poked and prodded the horrible mess on the back of Gary’s head with skilful fingers, while I quivered jelly-like on the seat emitting occasional squawks of wonder and drooling unbecomingly all over the floor. He asked questions to which neither of us could respond, Gary because he was in mindless agony, and me because – well – what would you say if the sexiest man on earth fixed you with one boudoir gimlet and said in a treacle thick French accent, “And ‘as eet been a-boom boom boom or’as eet been” –insert Gallic shrug –“’ow you say, all ze time ‘urt?” There was no way I was game to repeat the “boom boom boom” comment. I simply didn’t trust myself.
After nearly reducing both of us to fainting heaps, he stepped back and gave his diagnosis: “You ‘ave I sink ze infection, zees ees bad, uh? I sink you muss take ze antibiotique, and we see zen, uh? Eef on Monday, eet ees steel ze boom boom boom, zen we must operate. I am ‘oping zis is not ‘appen.” He gave another of those shrugs, and looked straight at the mewling heap on the floor that was I. “I sink you can dress zis, hmmmm?” It took a few moments for my poor short-circuited brain to realise he meant Gary’s wound. I nodded thoughtfully and attempted to wordlessly convey by meaningful look that I was the soul of caring, nurturing womanhood, and would indeed make the perfect Florence Nightingale to his George Clooney. He frowned concernedly at the strange woman performing bizarre facial contortions at him and repeated the question. I managed to stammer out my agreement. “So, you will dress zis and zen we shall see. Ze nurse will show you. Et Voila. I weesh you best. Au revoir.” And with a final soulful look which told me that he would love nothing better than to spend the rest of his life naked in a hot tub with me drinking Moet, but that tragically he couldn’t as I was a married woman and he respected such things, he exited.
Well, I’m pretty sure that was his meaning. Gary thought that perhaps he was actually looking for somewhere to wash his hands, but then Gary is a man.
Despite my best attempts to poison the wound on Gary’s head, it is Sunday now and it seems he is actually getting better, so it looks as though my anticipated passionate affair is a non-starter. Gary told me not to worry, he’s sure he can come up with a new life threatening disease, but I suspect my window of opportunity is over. Ah well. We’ll always have Paris.
October 9th, 2004
Given that by now we had anticipated being somewhere in the South of France, or at the very least past Chartres, I thought I had better post an update on the reasons for our long delay.
Sadly there was a death in Gary’s immediate family, which meant he had to fly back to the UK for some time. When he returned to Paris late last week, we discovered he had picked up the same infection which had knocked me out a few weeks earlier. Currently he is one very uncomfortable fellow with an abscess the size of a football on the back of his neck, so we are waiting for that to subside before we move on. According to Le Docteur (and he truly is OOH LA LA, let me tell you, I nearly kicked Gary off the couch and lay down myself when he walked in) we should be right to walk by Wednesday.
We managed to walk from one side of Paris to another before Gary got really crook, so at least we are on the right side when we go to leave. It may sound very little – but it took two days to get through!
I have no desire to turn this column into pathos, but it has been a fairly ordinary few weeks one way or another, and we will both be extremely glad to put the packs back on and get moving. It is great walking weather now that it has cooled down, and the country side is absolutely beautiful with all the autumn colours. At least the enforced delay has given us time to improve our French and get all the little things like pack repairs done, so when we set off again this week we are hoping to make good time. In the meanwhile I am devouring the contents of fnac’s English book section (it is a department store something like Marks and Spencer) and enjoying a comfortable bed while I still can.
We are staying some way out of Paris, so I may not get into town again to post an update before we leave, depending on how long it takes for Gary to get better. All being well – and we are sure it will be – the next post will be from Chartres.
October 2nd, 2004
Despite the tone of the last few posts, I really do like Paris. Who wouldn’t? It has more class in it’s little demitasse than I could hope to aspire too, more bars than I could get through in a lifetime, and no bans on smoking – something I heartily approve of, my quitting notwithstanding. There is something inherently civilised about waiters who not only ignore people lighting up in the non-smoking section of a restaurant, but indeed, happily bring the offender an ash tray.
But the part I like the most, without a shadow of competition – tacky, touristy, and shallow though it may be – is Montmartre.
I fell in love with the idea of Montmartre years ago. It’s the kind of place every good boarding school girl dreams of running away to – or should, if they have any commonsense. Despite the fact that it’s heyday as an absinthe soaked, bohemian haven was over long before I was born, for years I cherished rather romantic notions of going to live there. I decided I would rather like to starve (but glamorously of course) in a garret, whilst doing fabulously creative things, preferably with a wildly exotic lover.
With such high expectations, I thought, I was bound to be disappointed by the reality, and so for years I have bypassed it during my stops here.
But Montmartre has achieved a rare feat for a place of such iconoclastic status. It is at once a complete tourist trap, complete with hustlers, bad souvenir shops, and overpriced coffee; and yet also a genuine hub of creativity and – dare I say it – bohemia. Perhaps the offbeat flavour is a little less edgy than it once was, and the image a little more contrived, but then isn’t everything now? Whatever it’s failings, and even though I have no idea of what is really going on for the artists who paint there, I love it. Unashamedly, absolutely, adore every cheap and nasty bit of it.
I love sitting on a bench at the base of Sacre Coeur hill, in front of the gaudy 18th century carousel with it’s Venetian themed panels on the roof and gilt edged curlicues, and eating a hot crepe dripping with butter and sugar, serenaded by cheesy recorded accordion music.
I love the quiet cobble stoned alleyways with tiny hidden restaurants and bars, where all the customers know each other but still smile welcomingly at a dorky looking outsider; the sexy, glamorous twenty-somethings who whiz importantly around on their scooters and disappear tantalisingly behind peeling painted doors; and the classic, breathtaking view from Sacre Coeur.
But most of all, I love the Place de Tertre. It must be one of the most blatantly touristy corners in all of Paris, and I don’t care. I defy anyone to wander into it’s pretty little heart, past all of the gloriously clichéd painters and portrait artists, get served by one of the horribly kitsch but wonderfully slick waiters, and not be enchanted. It’s impossible.
In it’s own way it is as pretentious as anything the Deux Magots has to offer. There are artists in berets (!) puffing on pipes, would-be hippies selling homemade stuff, and plenty of self-conscious artistes having deep and meaningfuls. But, in marked contrast to the Deux, there seems to be an underlying sense of fun in Montmartre. Here, life is a mad kind of carnival, and the tourists are just as much a part of the spectacle as the artists who paint them – for how would one survive without the other? – and, more importantly, are just as welcome.
On the second day that I visited, the waiter from the café recognised me instantly (even with my clothes on), and ushered me to a nice table as if he actually gave a shit. He remembered how I had my coffee, and gave a good imitation of understanding my disastrous French. Regardless of the motive, nothing makes me happier than fantastic, ego boosting service. The artists also seem to know a face if they see it more than once, and one of them actually painted mine while I wasn’t looking. Best of all, he wasn’t remotely pissed off when I didn’t buy it, and didn’t try to “hard sell” me in the least.
By the end of a week I felt like a local, and the beauty of the Montmartre residents is that they indulged my fantasy, despite my patent lack of either artistic skills or bohemian looks. Eventually I gave in and got the bearded beret wearing pipe smoker to paint my niece’s portrait from a photo. Everyone has to be a tourist sometime.
Luckily, I am not staying long enough to have my illusions shattered, and so Montmartre will always remain a fantasy place which lives more in my imagination than anywhere else. But I rather think I would like to come back when I am 60 or so, and buy myself a garret to starve in. And an exotic lover.
October 2nd, 2004
It always happens. The day when I look at a place and suddenly think, “I could live here”. It is usually a bloody good indicator that it is time to get my skates on.
I thought I was safe this time. Walking into Paris, through the industrial wasteland which seems to be the inevitable welcome to any major city these days, nothing could have been further from my mind. With every stinking truck which roared past, and every smart arsed kid who yelled abuse, I vowed that Paris would be the last rotten city we would walk through. After the peace and loveliness of the little villages, I could only wonder at why anyone would actually choose to live here, and began counting the days until we could walk out again. Even after a week I was feeling less than enamoured of the place.
But you see, cities are insidious things. The stench of hot tarmac and exhaust which is so vile one day can, in the next, become the edgy and exciting smell of the Big Smoke. The frightening feelings of insignificance and loneliness that you get on arrival, seem to morph like lightening into an exhilarating sensation of anonymity. And before you know it, you are eyeing camera wielding Americans with vast disdain, chuckling ruefully into your Petit Café Noir as they order a Grande Café Crème, and buying a weekly pass on the metro. Ok, I always eye American tourists with vast disdain. But you know what I mean.
So in a way it was inevitable. The sun shone for a few days. I began to get my bearings. I found a corner of the city which fit and a café that served great coffee. And suddenly, walking home on a balmy night, belly full of great food and booze, I stopped on a bridge and looked out on to the Seine, lights twinkling everywhere and the Awful Tower looking stupidly romantic and it happened. “I could live here,” I thought.
Which got me to thinking some more. (No mean feat after copious jugs of house red). Maybe that is what happens to all city dwellers. Maybe none of them ever meant to stay. Maybe they all come to the city thinking, “hey, what the hell, I’ll stay for six months and see what happens”. And then suddenly they wake up and realise that they know the whereabouts of at least 10 good eateries, how to get good service out of a Champs Elysees waiter, and the way through Paris Nord station, and they think to themselves: “bugger it, I may as well stay.”
Sitting in a little café the following afternoon, I found further evidence for this theory. Two rather sexy looking girls were having a discussion in French which involved lots of cigarette waving and whispered sections – always guaranteed to make me listen harder – when they abruptly switched to absolute, rough as guts, country Australian. I mean, these girls were hardcore, back-of-Bourke-and-off-a-ute true blue. Unsuprisingly they were discussing blokes in fairly intimate detail. But amongst the unforgettable description of Bertand’s pubic region, I managed to glean that these two lovelies had in fact been in Paris for two years. Two years! Both of them had come to do some sightseeing and never left. I can only suppose that they had hereditary passports of some description. But apart from the rather humbling fact that these two spoke better French than I ever will, (and only bloody used it to discuss the size of Bertand’s willy,) they seemed to me a case in point. I can’t begin to think of how bizarre Paris must have seemed to them after downtown Wagga Wagga on a Saturday night, and yet here they were, two years later, on first name terms with the barman and obviously in their element.
I was half tempted to lean over and indulge in a bit of good country chick bonding. But I was overcome with a sudden and uncharacteristic burst of shyness. This was partly to do with the realisation that my devastatingly chic ensemble of worn out travelling dacks split up the inner seam and distinctly odiforous jumper was not necessarily guaranteed to inspire either trust or goodwill; and partly because I had one of those moments of bizarre revelation.
Suddenly I thought that no matter how far those girls had come – and there is no doubt, they had come far, in ways only another rural Australian can appreciate – they had only succeeded in recreating home. They knew the perimeters of their existence. They knew who was likely to be at the bar that Friday, and had worked out the pecking order of their immediate social circle. By the look of their clothes, they also had a good handle on the dress code. But really, all they had done was play the same game, by the same rules, on a different chess board. That is in no way to discount their achievement – it is some challenge to make a home for yourself in an entirely different country. I found it difficult and I was only in London, so God only knows how it would be when you are faced with learning another language. It is just that I am not that interested in recreating home – no matter how exotic the location.
Which is why, I suppose, I am happy to keep walking. A home is an easy thing. It doesn’t take much; a good place for coffee, a waiter who knows your face, and a mate or two who speaks your language. But when you walk, when you move every day, the rules are constantly changing, and your only home is within yourself. And there endeth the lesson.
So I didn’t interrupt their fascinating discourse on whether or not Bertand the mighty was going to bonk Amy the American. I sat and drank far too much cheap red wine until the waiter knew exactly who I was, and eventually I wandered off down the Boulevard Saint Michel, just like the old Peter Sarstedt song, and I thought to myself: “It’s been nice to live here.”
